The return to Gorn Station was quick and uneventful.

Yet, as Ratchet's trods left the ground bridge vortex in favor of the ravaged, metal substrate of the relay station, he couldn't help but take a startled step backwards when he noticed that Io's optics were not focused on the horizon, as they should have been, but rather on the ground beneath her right trod.

The seasoned medic followed the direction of her stare, and noticed that the loose metal and debris had been perturbed, almost as if the femme had purposefully moved the tip of the limb back and forth over top the detritus.

Almost as if she was trying to bury something.

Straining his optics, the medic saw what looked to be energon, dirty and contaminated, filling voids in the underlying metal substrate.

The pessimist in him immediately hypothesized that it might be her energon, that she had been wounded worse in her altercation with the Eradicons than she had admitted and that she was trying to keep the injury a secret.

It was something he could easily imagine her doing, especially in light of their earlier disagreement.

As the ground bridge closed behind him, the faint hum of energy dying away into nothing, Io turned her head and considered him. A flicker of emotion-something that the old medic had seen before but couldn't place-danced across her optics.

When she next spoke, her words assuaged his concerns.

"When you moved the mech," she began, softly. "Some of the energon that had pooled in his chassis leaked out onto the ground." Turning her head toward the horizon, she added. "It didn't seem right to just leave it there, uncovered, for all to see."

Ratchet couldn't help but smile.

Sometimes, during the thick of war, it was difficult to remember basic observances, especially in regards to fallen and/or wounded allies. Spilled energon, following the old ways, should be treated with dignity and respect. It should be collected for proper disposal or at least covered, as Io had done; unfortunately this was often overlooked in favor of haste.

And because there was just so damn much of it.

Leaving it exposed was nearly as severe an atrocity as not burying their dead. Which, to Ratchet's continuing chagrin, they had been forced to do as well. In most cases, they had to leave the dead where they died in favor of finding and saving the living. Realistically, with energon being in such short supply, they simply couldn't justify expending the energy necessary to remove and excavate graves for the millions of Cybertronian bodies that had amassed since the war began.

Perhaps, when the war was won, they could go back and do so.

At least, Ratchet hoped that would be the case.

Still smiling-a sad, and troubled smile, but a smile, nonetheless-Ratchet opened his bracer and considered their next move.

"I've got another energy reading; this one, two kliks to the west."

Io nodded, and started off in that direction, not at a full-out sprint as she had earlier, but at a slower seemingly more cautious run.

Ratchet smiled, internally, and set himself at a light trot to keep pace. She was learning, that much was certain, and it filled him with a sort of paternal pride to see her skills evolve so quickly.

If only Gamma would have lived long enough to learn this, Ratchet thought. It was a true statement, but considering how it seemed Io had improved, it wasn't as bitter as he had expected it would be. She doesn't seem to be letting her success with those Eradicons go to her head.

A smile flitted across his lips. Perhaps she's finally learned the discipline I was trying to impress on her.

Whatever the reason, the seasoned medic thanked the All-Spark and focused his attention on his "new" shield.

After a breem, Io raised her hand in a "hold" gesture. Obediently, trusting her senses better than his own, Ratchet slowed and took refuge behind the first large obstacle that he could, a mound of twisted metal that may have once been a generator.

Hex-cannons and optics roving the haze for any sign of danger, Io moved out of sight so as to scout ahead.

Immediately, Ratchet forced himself to squash the apprehension that sprang up at her solo reconnaissance. After seeing her in action earlier, he knew, full-well, that the small femme was anything but helpless. Instead, he tested his feelings, his own ability to trust her more.

Much to his relief, Io reappeared after a few cycles and gave the "all clear" sign, whereupon they continued their transit.

And so they traversed the battlefield, pausing every breem or so, Io taking point and scouting ahead, Ratchet holding back until she signaled that the way was clear.

Truly a safer means of traversing a war-zone, but the delay, as minute as it was, was too much for some of the wounded. This was true of their second patient. No sooner than they closed in on his signal, his spark faded from Ratchet's sensors.

Not wanting to endanger more lives by lingering where their skills were no longer useful, the two medi-bots immediately worked their way southward toward another signature. This one, like the one before, faded before it could be reached.

There was only one more life-sign within the range of Ratchet's sensor. Moving more quickly than before-oddly like their initial pell-mell transit-as if driven by the need to at least "break even," they covered the distance as efficiently as they could while still on the lookout for potential enemies.

Leaving the sounds of the battle far behind them, and moving into an area that was decidedly more built up than what they had experienced so far, they closed in on their next signal.

The fires here were smaller, leading both Ratchet and Io to conclude that this area had likely been decimated during the first wave of the attack.

As with all dying fires, there was abundant smoke. Thickening to the point they had to rely primarily on their sensors rather than line-of-sight, their forward progress slowed considerably. Puffs of ash leapt up from the ravaged substrate with every step they took, muffling their trod-steps and further confounding their already taxed senses.

"I can't tell mech from mail in this," Io said dropping back.

"Indeed." Pausing, Ratchet checked the readout on his bracer, once again, and was shocked to discover that he could hardly discern the data. Bringing the screen closer to his optics and brushing some of the ash away with a flick of his free hand, he studied it intently. "We're getting close." Turning, he pointed toward a portion of the haze that seemed darker and more foreboding than the rest. "That way."

Io nodded and trained her cannons. Advancing cautiously, the femme was surprised to discover that the darkened mote was not a looming adversary, as she had originally feared, but the burned out remains of a building-Gorn Station's primary relay tower.

They didn't have to advance far before they found their next patient, a small, lightly built, yellow-and-red mech, who lay motionless, curled up at the base of a communications array.

At the sound of their approach, the diminutive 'Bot started, jerking his head up and around and considered them with apprehension. "I told you I don't know anything else, I..." His voice cut off as his gaze happened upon the Autobot logo adorning Ratchet's chest. "Autobots?" He asked, sounding relieved. "Thank the All-spark!"

He tried to push himself into a sitting position, his right hand scrabbling for purchase, and his right leg sliding under him to bear his weight. It might have worked had he not been missing the most of latter appendage. "Ungh! Blasted 'Cons!" He growled through gritted dental plates, as his body slumped to the floor with a dull thud.

Fresh energon disgorged heavily from the severed limb. "Don't move." Ratchet insisted. "I Don't want you leaking to death on my watch."

The mech nodded wearily at this. "Sure thing, Doc."

Rolling his eyes at being addressed by such a menial identifier as "Doc"-it was hard to believe even a dying 'Bot could jape him-Ratchet turned his head so that he could look at Io.

"'Keep a look out'? She asked, as if she could read his thoughts.

Ratchet nodded, his lips turning in a slight smile.

"Understood," Following her cannons, the femme disappeared into the haze.

Ratchet immediately set to work clamping the end of the main energon line that fed the 'Bot's severed limb. Once that was done, flushed out the wound with a syringe of mech-fluid, and welded a temporary patch to what remained of his femoral plates. As this was all the more he could do for the injured 'Bot, he activated his com-link and contacted Io. "Are we clear?"

For several long moments, she didn't reply.

"Io?" Ratchet pressed.

"Sorry," she answered soon after. "I lost you there for a cycle; seems as though the ash is interfering with my 'com. I haven't seen anything. Are you bridging him out?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be back short-" her voice cut off with a bit of static. "-ly."

Nodding, Ratchet contacted the clinic. "I need a bridge to my coordinates," he said even as he helped the injured 'Bot to his remaining trod.

Nothing happened, however, for two full cycles. No ground bridge and no Io.

It made Ratchet decidedly nervous.

While Io may have had a distance to cover through the ashen-gray haze, groping about with only sensors for guidance, a ground bridge shouldn't have been an issue. Only three times during the war had anyone experienced difficulty forming a ground bridge vortex and all three had ended badly.

When the bridge finally did appear, bathing the room in a vibrant, emerald glow, Ratchet couldn't help but eye it suspiciously. That was all he needed: to rescue a patient only to be scattered to the ends of Cybertron by some weird phase shift.

Io appeared less than an astrosecond later and this deflected his mind from possible doom.

At least for a moment.

Considering her, he couldn't help but notice that she seemed a bit starry-eyed.

"Are you alright?" He asked, softly, brow-ridges drawing down in concern.

Nodding, though not meeting his gaze, she lowered her head and answered. "Yeah, I'm fine. Probably just the ash." Her voice faded abruptly, and she turned to survey the room. "Go on." She said after a moment. "Get him back to the clinic. I'll keep watch..."

Warning sirens were going off in Ratchet's processors, though before he could give the matter another thought, the wounded 'Bot doubled over, clutching his chest. "Ungh...that didn't feel good." He grunted with effort.

"Scrap!" Ratchet cursed. Stooping, he lifted the mech, and carried him carefully, yet quickly across the room and into the vortex.

As soon as Ratchet passed through the containment barrier, he was able to quickly hand the injured 'Bot off to an anxious-faced nurse.

"Thanks, Doc." The yellow-and-red mech said as he lay back against the soft padding of the berth. "I 'ppreciate the help." He took Ratchet's hand and shook it, weakly. "Hey," he added with a light chuckle. "Give my regards to that cute shield of yours."

Suppressing the desire to roll his optics, Ratchet merely smiled.

The mech returned the expression and was promptly wheeled out of the bay by his nurse.

Shaking his head, though elated at spark to know that the mech was in such high spirits, Ratchet started back toward the bridge.

He got three paces toward the swirling energy vortex when Crossarm's voice sounded over his 'com. "Optimus has ordered all medical personnel out of the field. The 'Cons are sending another wave in a pincer action to try and trap any remaining Autobot forces. All of you retreat, now. "

It was a pronouncement that was authoritative and arrogant.

And matter-of-fact.

It had to be when you were tasked with being the bearer of bad news, and you had said words similar to them over a dozen times in as many engagements.

Ratchet was impressed that his C.O.s voice didn't quaver. An aft though he might be, the clinic's cavalier, Head-of-Operations knew how to do his job.

But then, after a short pause, almost too small for Ratchet to detect, Crossarm added, "While you can..." A hint of either concern or regret edged into his voice.

Not good. Ratchet thought.

"Io? Did you get that," he said with some urgency, activating his own 'com.

There was a pause, and Ratchet moved to step into the vortex.

Thankfully, though Io answered: "Yes, sir, I'm en route."

Nodding, the medic stepped back from the bridge, and waited impatiently for her to join him.

Several astroseconds later, Io appeared, struggling slightly as she fought the containment barrier.

She looked tired.

This was unsurprising; he was tired as well. It had been a long, trying day for both of them; mentally as well as physically. And for a moment, his earlier concerns were laid to rest; such fatigue would easily explain the unusual behavior that he had observed just before bridging their last patient to the clinic.

As he watched her, he couldn't help but smile. Recalling the events of the day, Io had certainly earned his respect. Not only was she a decent medic-her field-suturing skills were, truthfully, some of the best he had seen in a while-but she had proved herself to be a very able warrior, courageous enough to take on mechs that were three times her size, and combat-talented enough to defeat them.

As she passed through the barrier, Ratchet decided congratulations were in order, and as she trudged toward him, he opened his mouth to offer his praise.

But the words never left his lips...

Io paused, legs trembling as she raised her optics to meet Ratchet's ever increasingly concerned stare. Then, seemingly in slow motion, she dropped to one knee, teetering unsteadily for a moment, before collapsing onto her side, energon hemorrhaging from her right bracer.

"Io!" Ratchet exclaimed sprinting to her side.

The femme's optics fluttered open at the sound of his voice, though she seemed to be having difficulty focusing her gaze; her lips moved weakly as if to speak.

"Shuss," he urged softly, taking her wrist gently in his fingers. Turning her arm, he examined her tair, the joint connecting the forearm to the upper arm. Just below the joint, hidden by the overhanging rear-hub of her bracer, Ratchet noticed a deep puncture wound that extended far enough into her protoform to sever the main energon line in that arm.

Ratchet's optics widened, though it was not severity of the wound, itself, which gave him pause.

This was not a new injury.

It had been patched, at least five or six separate times if the scoring marks on her bracer were any indication. However, no matter how skilled the medic, it was almost impossible to sew a severed line shut with one hand and it was only slightly easier to properly patch a highly mobile joint like the tair without assistance.

His spark sunk, and his optics widened even more as his processor pieced everything together.

She had been hiding a potentially fatal wound from him the entire time they were in the field.

The energon that she had covered up earlier had been hers, and all the "scouting" that she had done had likely been a ruse, a way to relieve pressure on the joint as energon accumulated in her bracer cavity. This would have involved ripping the seam of the patch and expelling the excess energon, something that could easily be done by just stepping out of his line-of-sight for a few cycles.

But...why would she do something so foolish? He wondered even as he pulled a tourniquet wrap out of his medical kit and began winding it tightly around the pliable mesh of her upper arm. Why would she hide the wound?

Then, feeling like he had been blindsided by a Wrecker, Ratchet's processor answered its own query.

She wanted to prove herself.

After months of my nit-picking, she wanted to show me that her skills had merit; that she was valuable...

Frowning, feeling his spark tighten, the medic closed his medical kit and gently lifted the small femme into his arms. Exhausted, Io slumped against his chest, injured arm dangling over his bracer. Adjusting the limb so that it rested over her grill, Ratchet started for the main hall, ignoring the concerned glances, and offers of aid proffered by his colleagues.

*BR-74 is open.* A familiar voice-that of his friend Triage-suggested over his private com-link frequency.

*Thanks, Triage.* Ratchet replied doubling his pace.

*You're welcome, boss-bot.*

Normally, the red-and-white medic would have rolled his optics at the ridiculous nickname that Interlink and the others had bestowed upon him decades ago, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his thoughts were all on Io.

Moving quickly, not wanting to delay Io's treatment any longer, Ratchet, with his long strides, reached BR-74 in less than a cycle. Anyone knowing him would have said he had sprinted, but appearances were the least of his concern. As the door opened to receive him, the bright green overhead lights snapped on and the machinery along the walls sprang to life in a flurry of mechanized trills.

After placing his shield on the berth, he moved around the room quickly and methodically, removing various tools and implements from the shelves and placing them on a small, mobile cart. Once he had everything he needed, he wheeled the cart over to the berth, pulled up a bench, and began to work.

One of the tools that Ratchet had purposed was a pair of specialized gauntlets. Meant for larger medics, the device was essentially a small hand, each of the tiny digits controlled, puppeteer style, by subtle motions of his fingers.

With them, he could perform fine-scale repairs that would otherwise have been impossible to do with his own hands. The kind of actions that he couldn't do in the field even with Io's help.

After flushing as much energon as he could from the cavity, he seized one end of the line with two of prongs. The others snagged the severed, second half. Fortunately, the tear had been clean and both ends married neatly. Pulling a suture pack from the cart, Ratchet gently picked up the pre-threaded needle with his other gauntlet, and began to sew the line back together, his movements calculated, and methodical.

"Io?" He asked, gently.

A sigh fluttered across her lips as her optics slowly opened. Rather than look at her charge, she focused her gaze on an interesting scuff-mark on the otherwise polished ceiling. "Go ahead," she began, her voice soft, yet trembling with emotion. It was weak. Barely able to be heard over the machinery, but as his attention was all on her, it sounded loud and clear. "Y-yell at me for doing something stupid." She paused for a moment, as if gathering her strength. "That's your job, isn't it?"

Feeling a sudden stab of pain in his spark, he turned and looked at her, brow ridges raised in disbelief.

Have I really been that overbearing for her to...to hate me? Even when I'm trying to help?

Lowering his head, Ratchet sighed, and continued his work. "I wasn't going to yell at you," he said after several awkward moments, his voice glitching slightly toward the end as she snorted at his comment. Tying off the last stitch, he slowly unwrapped the tourniquet. Setting this aside, Ratchet removed his right gauntlet, withdrew his welder, and began to repair the torn mesh along her tair. "I know you probably don't believe me, but I'm just glad that you're alive." Immediately he froze. It wasn't like him to divulge his feelings to others, and he couldn't help but feel angry, not to mention embarrassed, with himself for having done so.

Frowning, he finished his work and pushed himself slowly from the table. Not willing to meet her gaze, Ratchet climbed to his trods and began cleaning up his work station, all the while dreadfully waiting for her to laugh at or viperously rebut his statement.

Much to his surprise, she remained silent.

As he placed the gauntlets in the room's autoclave for sterilization, the medic couldn't help but glance over at her out of the corner of his optic.

Io was staring at him, the expression on her face unreadable. Then, shaking her head, she pushed herself to a sitting position, and swung her legs out and over the edge of the berth, trods dangling freely in the large, concave space offered by the berth's specialized undercarriage.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ratchet demanded, firmly, fixing her with the full intensity of his stare.

Ignoring her surgeon, arms and legs shaking noticeably, she pushed herself forward so that she could slide gracefully, yet slowly, off the edge of the berth, claws digging deeply into the padding for extra support. Stretching out and planting one trod solidly on the cold, metal floor of the lab, she gradually allowed the limb to support more and more of her weight as she lowered herself down to the floor using her uninjured arm.

"Io?" he tried again, this time his voice was soft, almost pleading.

Bringing her other trod to bear, eventually the femme was standing, albeit shakily. Keeping the berth on her left side, she used it for support as she made her way toward the door, her legs trembling as she walked with slow, uneven steps.

As she reached the end of the berth, she paused and slowly removed her hand so that she was standing on her own. Optics focused on the door less than a mechanometer away, she took one tenuous, unassisted step before promptly collapsing to her knees.

A pained expression twisted Ratchet's features as he hurried to her side. Gently, not wanting to startle her, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and said as unobtrusively as he could possibly manage. "You lost a lot of energon. You need to rest."

"I-I can't." She gasped, trying weakly to shove him away. Set off balance by the abruptness of the motion, she teetered for a moment on her good arm before sagging against him. Her head lolled to the side, coming to rest against his chest and, though she seemed nearly delirious, the look on her face-plate could have been none other than embarrassment.

In a list of expressions Ratchet could have considered, this would not have made even the bottom ten. In fact, he was so surprised by it that he nearly dropped her.

Granted, this was the closest they had been to each other since the start of her "tutelage," but it wasn't for romantic feelings that he felt uncomfortable.

She almost died and she's embarrassed? He couldn't help but be taken aback, his processors whirring mightily.

Why? Because I found out about her ruse?

Ratchet-ironically enough, on one of his first forays-had done something similar, tried to hide a potentially lethal injury from his charge. Most first-time shields did as a pride thing; one doesn't want to be given new responsibilities only to create questions of inadequacy.

It can't be that much different with the Decepticons, He thought, lowering his head in contemplation. Well...perhaps more so given their harsh measures of control.

But...Io would have gotten over all that decades ago, even considering her new position with the Autobots.

No, the look on her face had been so much more than a punctured 'indestructibility bug.'

But why?

And then it hit him. The ruse had been so cleverly defined, so orchestrated and timed that, he might never have discovered the injury. She obviously didn't want him considering that her first solo mission may not have been the best strategy.

She had been trying to prove herself to him.

And not just in battlefield might.

She had been trying to show him that she could think for herself, that she could make valuable decisions.

His spark quavered as he considered the larger picture, remembering their previous argument.

It had been his overbearing tactics that had pushed her to this.

Nothing she had ever done had been right. That was what she had insinuated; that he talked down to her. And now he had given her freedom, if reluctantly. He had treated her like an equal. She probably felt that now...he would go back to treating her as inadequate.

I really am a slag-munger. The medic thought bitterly.

Sighing, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her back to her berth. She tried to protest, pushing against his medial-plate to get away, but she was much too weak, her claws only managing to score tiny grooves in his finish. Realizing this, she began to mumble about not being weak, about doing this on her own.

Tut-tutting as he always did with a recalcitrant patient, Ratchet delicately set her down on the berth, making sure that all portions of her wings were laid out flat before committing her full weight to the pad.

He then put her into stasis, securing her with flexcord around the bulk of her chassis, and adjusting the energon replenishers to account for her smaller mass.

Her optics fluttered for a moment, as if she was trying to fight against the irresistible pull of mechanical sleep, but then they went still.

All of this is my fault... he lamented, bitterly.

And as he looked down at her, he couldn't help but realize that, somehow...someway, he would have to make it right.

Lowering his head in contemplation, Ratchet turned off the lights and exited the room.